


here comes the spark

by stranded_star



Category: Holy Trinity (YouTube RPF)
Genre: F/F, Strip Poker, written for trinity week on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stranded_star/pseuds/stranded_star
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels as if the only thing that will save her is the way Hannah bends at the hips, just slightly - almost sheepish, as if the ridges of her collarbones and lines of her throat are not the most beautiful landscape of a human body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here comes the spark

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for Trinity Week on tumblr. I am over there at wordharvest.tumblr.com. This is entirely fictional.

The room is heavy and hot with bodies, alcohol pulsing through veins like an excited heartbeat. Grace sips at her drink, vodka stinging her throat on the way down as she watches Mamrie gyrate with Tyler. Her leather jacket is sticking to her arms and she can feel a trickle of sweat drip down the small of her back; the room is just blurry enough to make her feel like she is capable of anything. 

This is why Grace loves her job and her life, in a fierce, desperate, reckless way, because they are young and alive and the demons in her chest are chased away by the burn of a drink. It’s just this, the press of Hannah’s shoulder against her arm and Mamrie’s laugh resonating in the room, that consume any anxiety prickling over from the day and help her feel safe. Sometimes she fears that it is a temporary fix, that maybe her happiness shouldn’t rely on alcohol and a pulsing bass in a crowded room. 

She sips again. She should leave the philosophizing to Hannah - these are thoughts she keeps as far from her mind as possible anyway. As if to reassure her, Hannah’s fingers run down her arm and wrap around her wrist. Grace can feel her rise to her tiptoes and breathe softly against her ear. 

“You wanna dance?” 

And Grace nods, because her body is thrumming with a nervous energy and these moments of giddiness make her hips fluid and her hair wild, the best kind of temptress. Hannah’s eyes go soft when she is close and Grace knows it is cruel of her to enjoy it, but Hannah’s approval feels like both warm chocolate melting on her tongue and whiskey igniting her stomach. 

So she follows Hannah into the crowd, Mamrie and Tyler and Sarah enveloping them, a mess of damp clothes and perfumed necks; the music beats hard and fast and she swivels her hips back, head loose and hair flying. She feels Hannah’s hands go to her waist, resting heavy on her hip bones peeking out from her tank top. Hannah’s hot breath and bangs brush against her neck, and maybe they’re more than a little drunk, but Mamrie presses up against Grace’s front so Grace pretends that this isn’t less than acceptable platonic behavior. 

Straight, straight, straight. It’s kind of a dumb word. It’s also a safe word, a safe place to rest in: boys worship her with simple kisses and declarations of forever, but with the same breaths that say “I love you” she forgets what love tastes like. She forgets excitement, forgets waking up with your first thought that of another, forgets sex that leaves your toes curling and lungs aching. 

This stupidly reminds her of her earlier thoughts of self-doubt and confusion, so she grabs both of Mamrie’s hands and place them on Hannah’s, trapping herself in a best friend sandwich that squishes out her loneliness. Tegan and Sara starts playing - okay, she totally knows that because Hannah plays them incessantly, not because she bought their album one drunk night - and Hannah hollers excitedly, Mamrie says fucker endearingly, and Grace feels that the night might turn out all right after all. 

***

She was wrong. Clearly the universe is fucking with her, as Tyler yells out “strip poker, bitches!” with a beer teetering in his hands. She suspects that Tyler wants to impress the cute boy with the long blue bangs, but it doesn’t make this any less of a terrible idea, as she hazily tries to remember what panties she wore today and whether it would be acceptable to reveal them. 

At least she has the best poker face. 

But when the cards are dealt and they all sit cross-legged on the floor, Hannah leans over and slurs “ready to go down, Thmellbig?” in her ear, and Grace knows that Hannah is going to be the one undressing tonight. 

***

The first time she met Hannah, Grace didn’t associate sex with her at all. Hannah had her cute librarian swoop, with her plain glasses and lightweight lisp, but even her adoring fans didn’t convince Grace that she could become this. This gorgeous, confident woman with her slim, fitted clothing and gentle touches; god, the way she looks when she’s had a bit of a drink and the music’s beating loud and fast, as if she was the only one dancing in the room. 

Hannah is beautiful, and she can only ever look, because touching would involve feelings and confessions and risking one of the most precious things in her life. But god, she is looking. 

*** 

They have started off innocent. The cards are dealt, Tyler smirking at her. Chester isn’t there - thank god, she doesn’t want to deal with their increasingly disintegrating relationship at the moment - and she thinks Tyler suspects, with his piercingly accurate vision, that she wants. 

Grace rearranges her face into something collected, and looks down at her cards. Straight flush. Perhaps the world isn’t committed to screwing with her head. Everyone exchanges cards, Tyler bets a shirt, and the game begins. Without missing a beat, she deadpans: “Calling.” The group titters. Hannah grins at her. 

“I raise you, Gracie.” Her eyes are bright and smiling. “Two items.” 

Sarah folds, Mamrie calls, but no one else raises. There’s no way Hannah’s beat her, so why….? 

They put down their cards. No one beats Grace’s straight flush, and Hannah…she only has a pair. 

“Strip, little Hart!” Mamrie shouts gleefully. Hannah shrugs, standing up to being unbuttoning her vest, fingers nimble. As she slips it off, Grace swears her mouth twitches into a smirk. She loosens her tie, pulling it over her head; when she looks up, her eyes burn ridges into Grace’s ribcage, so dangerously close to her heart. 

She swallows, once. Something niggling at the back of her head tells her Hannah isn’t the one being duped. 

The next round follows similarly, only Tyler, with his helpless fit of giggles, gets a terrible hand and pulls off his shirt and tie. Grace thinks she spies the cute boy stealing a glance or two, and she’s glad, in a remote sort of way, that someone is going to get laid tonight. 

Even though this isn’t real poker, Grace is still excellent at it. She’s always had decent luck in life, with her videos being discovered and her friends being fantastic, and that combined with her work ethic has given her a good deal of success in most areas. Except, apparently, for the practice of accepting that Hannah Hart has really lovely skin. And hair. And soft lady curves. 

Stop. She has to stop. 

So when Hannah loses the next round, that infuriating twinkle in her eye, she almost looks away. 

Almost. 

Instead, her eyes trace the movement of Hannah’s hands as they pull off her white t-shirt, the smooth expanse of her stomach stretching as she tugs the fabric over her bra. Black satin, with a tiny white bow in between, a girly surprise. Grace has made jokes, yes, about thinking about girls and girls’ bodies, but this feels so real that her throat dries out, parched for a water she’s forgotten exists. 

She’s burning with something inexplicable, that makes her breath catch and her chest feel like she’s falling. And it feels, it feels as if the only thing that will save her is the way Hannah bends at the hips, just slightly - almost sheepish, as if the ridges of her collarbones and lines of her throat are not the most beautiful landscape of a human body. 

Grace has always loved art, and Hannah is a masterpiece. 

Their eyes catch, and something shifts as Hannah sits again. Grace wants to make the tables turn, wants to give Hannah a taste of these most forbidden thoughts. She knows, in the recesses of her chest, that if she exposes a sliver of her desire, Hannah will know. 

She always knows, has always known. 

So in a way it feels like fate, when her next hand is absolute rubbish, but instead of folding she calls, and something releases in her heart when the cards are down and she’s lost. She reaches for her jacket, shrugs it off. One item. Her hands go to her tank top, pulling up and up and up until her head tilts back and her body is a smooth expanse of black lace and soft skin. 

Her eyes flicker up: brown meets blue. There is a shift, inexplicable but so real she loses her breath. 

This is when it starts. 

*** 

fin


End file.
